


To Awkward Lunches

by objectiveheartmuscle



Series: To Quiet Nights [3]
Category: Vampire Academy & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 18:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5753176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectiveheartmuscle/pseuds/objectiveheartmuscle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the second and hopefully last time in his life, Dimitri sits down with Rose's parents for a chat about him and Rose. It goes about as well as planned.</p>
<p>Arguably a direct follow up to 'To Quiet Nights' but easily a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Awkward Lunches

**Author's Note:**

> Set roughly a year before the Epilogue of The Ruby Circle.

For literally anyone else in this world, the prospect of lunch with Janine Hathaway and Ibrahim Mazur would be thrilling, the kind of excitement that might actually make them puke from nerves but call the vile process worth it.

Unfortunately, you're not literally anyone else, and your nerves — the bad kind, because you never get a break — have gotten the better of you to the point where you're opening the cafe door with shaky, clammy hands.

They're halfway up along the far wall, sitting on either side of the table corner farthest from you, menus ignored and faces serious in quiet conversation. Just the sight of Rose's parents makes you want to turn heel and run back to Russia.

And you're supposed to get through a whole meal with them?

The hostess tries asking what you need, and you politely wave her off, gesturing towards where you're headed. The color drains out of her face when she sees who you're meeting; she mutters _good luck_ under her breath before turning to help the couple that came in behind you.

"Belikov," Abe says, standing to greet you, and you know he saw the way you discreetly passed your hand over the side of your jeans to wipe off your hand before shaking his. "You'd be late if you weren't so early."

Somehow, you manage to find your voice. "Hard to beat a man who's already on time for tomorrow."

Janine's eyes are narrowed ever so slightly. "How've you been, Dimitri?" she asks, and you swallow back the wince out how mangled your name sounds with her accent. Not for the first time, you silently wish your mother had given you a name like Boris or Igor — something still distinctly Russian yet not so difficult in pronunciation that every Westerner you meet butchers it right off the bat.

"Fine, thanks," you reply. Is small talk making things worse or better?

"And Rose?"

"Yes," Abe says, eyes twinkling, "How _is_ Rose?"

You choke on air, definitely not at all thinking about the last time you saw her — sated with victory after making you apologize rather wordlessly for working an early shift so you could have the time for this quickly-becoming-awkward lunch.

"Ibra," Janine chides, and you nearly gag right then and there. Rose has been convinced for a while now that _something_ between her parents was rekindled in the wake of Abe's introduction into her life; hearing Janine use a nickname for a man you're well aware has seen her naked pretty much solidifies that theory.

Not that you want to think about your potentially future in-laws getting it on. In fact, given the star of your own sex life, this train of thought is one you'd happily jump off.

"I'm just checking in on the well-being of my daughter," Abe says smoothly, eyeing you like a cat getting ready to pounce on a piece of meat. "The man responsible for it is sitting in front of me. Forgive me for being a concerned father."

It's Rose-logic coming out of someone else's mouth. Dear God. Five minutes in and you're ready to leave, scrub your ears out with wire wool dipped in acid, jump into a pit of lava-breathing sharks, and then swear off any activity that might make Zmey even the tiniest bit unhappy.

"Rose is fine," you say quickly.

An eyebrow slides up his forehead. "Just 'fine'?"

"She's very good. Happy. Things are going well."

_What is this, a pick your favorite adjective activity in English language class?_

_Might as well be. I feel like I'm thirteen again._

Abe's still assessing you, and you can't help but shift under his stare. It's as close to fidgeting as you'll let yourself get. He's leaned back in his chair, his arms across his chest. He's the king of this cafe and you're the peasant asking for another month to cough up the rent on your land because you really don't want to have to kill your only cow for the meat's profit.

Zmey could skin you alive with his teeth and you'd let him — happily — if it meant you got to marry Rose in the end.

"I was surprised," Abe says, unfolding his arms. His left falls to his lap; the right rests on the table just below where his wrist bends up as he fingers the spoon at his setting. "I thought after our last conversation you'd rather avoid either of us for a long time. Certainly not just a year and half."

You're dying to agree that he's right, that yes, you'd rather set yourself on fire than go through with this, but you promised Rose that you'd have this conversation, so here you sit, about to puke from bad nerves with a small jewelry box in your duster pocket burning a hole in your mind.

Janine leans forward, elbows on the table and temple brushing against clasped hands. "I would have to say I'm in a similar boat." Her brows furrow together. "Are you okay, Dimitri? You look like you're about to be sick."

Panic pan _icpanicwhatonEarthmademethinkIcould_ —

Your hand shoots into your pocket, grabs the box, and basically tosses it on the table before you realize what you're doing. Belatedly, you realize it's proper etiquette to take your coat off inside, so you do, draping it inside out from your side of the chair.

They look surprised. That's a victory for you. Not much catches either of them off guard, but a jewelry box — the kind only big enough for a ring — seems to have done it.

Abe is slow to reach for the box, and when he settles back and flicks it open, his other eyebrow joins the first in the middle of his forehead. Wordlessly, he turns it so Janine can see.

"That doesn't look cheap," Janine notes and you feel like snorting because _my God is that an understatement_.

What's the rule of thumb on engagement rings? That they should cost two to three months' salary? You're sure you spent about five months' worth.

At the center is a round diamond, nearly two carats in size, edged in a square of lacy filigree and tiny blue opal stones. The metal is pure platinum, and it glistens in the light.

Kanye West would be jealous indeed.

"It definitely was not," you agree, forcing yourself to calm the hell down, which is a Herculean task given how you can't stop running through a list of _what could they possibly do to me_ worst case scenarios. Given that Abe's involved, loss of kneecaps and being required to recoup an unspecified debt in twenty years that involves your firstborn and a lock of your hair are at the current two most likely contenders for what could happen.

"I'm surprised," Abe says, slowly turning the box at all angles, inspecting it like he's an expert in diamonds. He probably is. You've never been so daft as to put anything past him.

"About what?" you ask warily.

"I was expecting something a little more understated. You strike me as the type to propose with his mother's ring."

"My mother never got a ring," you say stiffly, deflecting the real topic.

"I know." The ring glints from the lights above and you reaffirm your belief that Abe earned his nickname based on the quality of his voice alone. It's serpent slick and devil smooth in his delivery, controlled and carefully uttered because every word is to be remembered.

You take a deep breath and clasp your fisted hand in your lap in some semblance of self control. No one's an idiot here; they know what you're about to ask and at this point it's more for ceremony than actually because you want to ask.

A server assistant drops by with a bread basket. Nobody touches it.

Janine has taken the box from Abe and is giving it just as intense an inspection. Across the table, Abe's staring you down, just waiting for you to open your mouth and fuck everything up.

"Mr. Mazur, Guardian Hathaway—" Formal is best in these situations — could you stall any longer? _And now they're both looking at you like they're sizing up a pig for slaughter, fantastic, where's the fucking waiter when you need a distraction_ —

"I asked to meet with you today because I wanted both of you to know before anyone else that I plan on proposing to your daughter with that ring."

Your back is sore, all your muscles and nerves tucked tight with adrenaline, and your feet feel like they're not touching the ground that's drifting lower, away from you, a completely different dimension altogether even though logically you know they're attached to you and that the hardwood floor isn't much more than a foot away.

"We've heard," Janine says. "Or, rather, _I_ 've heard, and Abe guessed it a while ago. We've been waiting for this," she adds, gesturing to the three of you with her free hand.

Abe's still staring at you. If he were American, he would definitely be the kind of father who cleans his shotguns on the kitchen table when his daughter's boyfriend comes to pick her up for a date. As it stands, you push yourself not to cower under his scrutiny. He may have only been in her life for the past eighteen months, but you were raised to defer to the wishes of parents, especially those who are liked by their offspring.

"What happened with the two of you this past summer?" Abe asks, crossing his arms.

"What do you mean?" you ask, well aware of what he's referring to.

"There were a couple of weeks . . ." He's letting you say it, but you really don't want to. That was an awful month and you never want to revisit it.

You meet his gaze, trying to work out how much he knows. It's basically impossible. He's got just as strong a poker face as you. There's a reason he's so successful in what he does, whatever it is.

"We received some news that . . . well, it changes a lot." You lean forward, shifting to stretch out your back. "For our future, at least."

Abe raises an eyebrow again, and you take the proffered box from Janine, closing and slipping it back into the pocket of your duster. Fortunately, just as Abe opens his mouth, the waiter finally appears to take drink and appetizer orders with an apology for his lateness. It gives you a minute reprieve.

"What kind of news?" Janine asks as a server's assistant refills the water glasses. You eye the kid, silently hoping Abe will commandeer the bill given that he suggested this place for lunch.

"It . . ." You want to tell. You'll have to, eventually. Lissa and Christian were finally let in on the secret not even a few weeks ago, after Sydney and Adrian agreed that they could know, as _friends_ , about Declan's birth and the implications for you and Rose. Including Eddie and Adrian's mother, who'd been there for the initial conversation, and Mikhail Tanner, from the one time he caught you in a moment of weakness, that's it on who knows.

Still, if there's a chance Janine and Abe will get a grandchild in the future, you have a feeling they'd want to know.

(As you follow this train of thought, it occurs to you that you'll have to tell your family, too, because no way would they simply accept you and Rose having a baby together with just _it can happen for us_ , and suddenly that's easily double the number of people who already know. Damn. You'll have to send Sydney and Adrian a pretty nice Christmas gift some year to make up for it, if it ever happens.)

"Rose should be the one to tell you both," you say with a shake of your head. "At the very least, it should be us together."

"And why is that?" Janine asks, using the same tone she pulled when questioning Lissa on her friends' whereabouts at the ski lodge two years ago. It's the one that demands answers and nothing less.

"She's your daughter," you say. You're not missing the irony in this, indirectly discussing (grand)children when your original intention was to talk about marriage. "It wouldn't be right."

"What I don't think is right is my daughter getting hitched at nineteen," Abe interjects, nodding to the waiter when he sets down something amber and iced in front of him. A pang of jealousy hits you; you'd love a drink or ten right now. Anything to forget this ever happened. You can feel the stress aging you.

"This wouldn't be until the new year, at least," you say. "She's been adamant about waiting to be engaged until she's twenty, and I'm respecting that."

"So you've talked to her about this," Janine says, and you nod.

"We've been talking about it for a while. She gave me her ring size this past April."

The waiter returns to take food orders, and you blindly point to the first pasta dish your eyes land on. Janine's the first to speak when the three of you are left alone.

"Assuming she says yes . . . have you considered the implications of this? Have the _both_ of you?"

Without meaning to, your eyes dart from her to Abe. You know enough from comments Rose has dropped over time that her parents' relationship was a lot more complex than a once-off affair. Rose has always held a particular interest in her mother's interest regarding her reputation, and you see where that curiousness comes from.

"You're a private man," Abe adds, sobering up, and you realize now that his earlier scrutiny was mischievous and playful, him toying with you because he could. Now he's completely serious — this is a topic gravely important to him, too. "If you and Rose get married . . . everything will be out on the table."

What it'll be is the political statement of the century, but somehow, that doesn't bother you. Not marrying Rose because of what others might think is infinitely more devastating.

"We have," you say, because this is a _we_ topic. You've considered her your partner, either as a concept in the future or as reality, since that first training session with her. When it comes to the two of you, it's always _we_. You're a two-for-one package deal.

Abe's eyebrow returns to his hairline, waiting for you to elaborate, and the other meets its twin when you feel someone come up behind you.

"Surprise, comrade," Rose says, wrapping an arm tight around your shoulders from behind before you can turn around to see who could've possibly surprised Zmey. You reach up absently to squeeze her wrist, confusion half-scrunching your face.

"Aren't you working today?" you ask, the world falling away when you twist to look up at her. She does that to you, pushing everything out of your awareness until it's just her. It's great when you're alone with her; it's hell when you're on duty or in situations like right now, when you're trying to have a serious conversation with her parents.

She shrugs, her arm still around you and your hand still grasping her wrist. "A little birdy told me you were here, and Lissa's not feeling well, so she gave me the afternoon off." When you start to argue, Rose shakes her head. "She's got two guardians outside her door, four outside her suite, and another two manning the wall her bedroom looks out from. She's _fine_ , Dimitri. Besides—" She leans down to whisper in your ear: "I couldn't not come because I haven't stopped thinking about how good you looked when you woke up naked this morning."

Your hand tightens on her wrist, both an involuntary reflex at the memory she's bringing up and as a silent warning that _we're in public_ even though that's never stopped the two of you from doing this in the past, working each other up, location be damned.

She takes the open seat then with a flourish, unbuttoning her coat and letting it crumple between her hips and the back of the chair. "May I ask what could possibly be so entertaining that both of my wonderful parents are here?" she asks no one in particular.

"You getting engaged at twenty," Janine says dryly and Rose cuts you a sidelong look before answering her mother.

"I can't tell if it's the 'getting married' or the age part that bothers you."

"It's both," Abe says, providing the kind of united parenting front neither you nor Rose are used to.

She doesn't even blink. She is where you're getting the strength to calm down right now, it seems. "Mom was twenty when she had me."

"And it almost cost me my career," Janine says, not catching the way your mouth twitched at Rose's words. Abe did, though, and you meet his gaze squarely for a moment before focusing on Janine and the way she's tracing the bottom of her water glass. "Not to mention that I was extraordinarily young."

That definitely makes you frown. In Baia, 20 is about average for girls to start having children. Your mother had been seventeen when Kalya was born; Kalya herself was sixteen when she had your nephew, Paul, and even that only raised minimal eyebrows, and that's not even getting into the average age difference between the girls who are having babies and the Moroi men fathering them. Your six and half years on Rose is basically a Russian summer compared to your parents.

Rose nods, reaching for the bread basket across the table with all the grace of a three-year-old aiming for the cookie jar atop the refrigerator. "I know. I'm getting married, not having a kid." She doesn't look at you when she speaks, even though her words have sent your heart into your throat. You say it every time she makes a small step forward and it's no less true now; that's the closest thing you've ever heard to a 'yes'. She sounds like she's already made up her mind on the matter — and lucky you that it's in your favor.

"Besides," Rose adds, tearing off part of a roll and popping it in her mouth like you're all discussing a get together next Sunday and not one of the biggest events of your life, "I have something you didn't."

"And what's that?" Janine asks, sounding extremely wary.

Rose smiles mischievously. "My best friend is the Queen. That's basically like having diplomatic immunity."

Janine shakes her head as the waiter swings by to see if Rose wants anything. All she asks for is a soda and a bread basket for herself.

"I don't like it," Abe says suddenly, and you stifle a groan, knowing full well he's just saying this to get a rise out of Rose.

Unfortunately, it works; she freezes, a chunk of bread in her hand and her jaw hanging open. The look she turns on him is one you're glad you've seen maybe twice in the time you've known her because holy _shit_ is it terrifying. It's the kind of look that says she has no problem reaching down your throat, pulling out your guts, and forcing you to eat them.

"You don't _like_ it?" she asks lowly.

Abe's eyes are fixed on her, but you can see the reaction he got is exactly what he was looking for because he's a madman whose sense of humor is as twisted as he is dangerous. "I don't like it," he repeats.

"And tell me, _Dad_ ," she says with a tone that makes you concerned for the safety of everyone in a five-mile radius of the cafe you're sitting in, "What _exactly_ about this do you not like?"

"I think you're moving awfully fast for only having been together a year."

"Fifteen months and twenty-two days," she argues, because she's definitely not counting, that would be just _ridiculous_ to think she's hoarding every second she gets with you.

"Like an extra two and half months makes all the difference," Janine says dryly and it's simultaneously as if you're nonexistent in the middle of this family spat and the one everyone's pointing fingers at.

Rose shoots her mother a glare.

"You're still young, Rose, whether you want to hear it or not," Abe says. There's a gravity in his voice that makes you realize this is his shtick — besting his daughter in the game he invented to get her to take him seriously. You can see it on her face, the way she's fighting with herself to respect what he's saying or to tune him out and write him off as overprotective and _you just don't get me_. "You both are," Abe adds with a nod to you that you return.

You recognized you had no idea what you were doing when you turned twenty-four, an acknowledgement cemented in place when you met Rose almost a year later. Until then, you thought you'd had everything figured out. Part of growing up includes the realization that nobody knows what's going on and that every adult is merely a six-year-old playing dress up and getting away with it because of some number on a calendar.

Rose bristles at Abe dragging you into this; you snake a foot out and knock her ankle gently to let her know you couldn't care les.

"I don't want you to rush into something that blows up in your face when you realize five, ten, twenty years from now that it isn't what you ultimately wanted," Abe says.

It takes you a beat to realize he's honestly worried about how Rose will take those words, and when you do, you're floored. A lifetime of knowing Zmey hasn't prepared you for seeing him through the eyes of his daughter.

His daughter, who, by all accounts, looks ready to fly through the roof (or is it fly off the handle? You can never remember), her eyes wide and mouth taut as she tries and fails to compose herself. She's chomping at the bit to defend herself and her actions, defend how much she loves you and how much you love her and how that's never going to change, which is as admirable as it is naïve.

A small part of you agrees with Abe, which is kind of a frightening concept. You've thought about this before — the growth you went through from 18 to 24, as a person and as a guardian, was stunning, and to say the person you were at Rose's age right now the the person you are now are the same would be a huge, bold face lie. Frankly, you were a hell of a lot less mature then compared to now; you mostly had your shit together, but you didn't truly buckle down and get serious the way you're presently known to be until Ivan was murdered. Rose is certainly ahead of where you were at almost twenty, but she still has a lot of growing to do.

But first: the meltdown.

"You saw what I went through," she hisses, leaning towards him, voice ice cold and posture stiff with nightmarish memories. "You were _there_ , Zmey. You saw me, drunk and crying and a temporary high school dropout because I was ready to throw away the only life I ever knew for the person sitting next to me right now, and you have the _nerve_ to sit there and say I may wake up one day and change my mind on how much I love him?"

"I'm being realistic," is all Abe responds with, inflection dipping down to match hers. "It's something that comes with age and maturity."

Age by itself is more of a nuisance for Rose than anything; at this point, the only thing she can't do for herself is buy alcohol and while you're only a couple months out from her turning twenty, you're not planning on asking her on her birthday — that's a little too predatory for your tastes.

(You're a hypocrite for thinking that, you know, based solely on the fact that you made the conscious decision to sleep with her twice when she was seventeen and even went through with it on the second occasion.)

Maturity on the other hand . . . that's a sore spot for her. When you mentioned, rather offhandedly and early on in your friendship, that you thought she was far more wise and woke to the hardships of a guardian's life than most dhampirs twice her age who'd been through hell and back, her whole body lit up. At the time, you'd responded to seeing her adore your compliment, but later, you realized she lit up because she was starved for someone to recognize that she wasn't the brassy, loudmouth troublemaker everyone assumed she was. Desperate for someone — anyone — to see that she understood what she'd been forced into signing up for by her birth, you were the first person in her entire life to tell her you recognized that in her and she'd fallen a little bit more in love with you for it.

But age and maturity together in one fell swoop? _Ouch._ You'll be cleaning up this mess for a while.

_Spasibo, Zmey, bolshoye spasibo._

"I think you're being a pompous ass who's throwing around his opinion because he likes pissing people off," Rose says in a moment of unconscious self-clarity that makes you want to pull out a neon sign and shove it in Abe's face that says _See? She's more mature than you think._

"What do you think, Dimitri?" Abe asks, turning to you, and your eyes go wide because no, this is a father-daughter argument, you really want no part in this, if there was anyway you could just sink into the floor and die right now—

"What do I think what?" you ask.

_Good job not looking like an idiot who's been doing nothing but staring at Rose for the past five minutes. Way to go. Keep up the good work. A-plus effort. That'd get you a five in school back home._

"Do you think I'm being realistic in thinking about how Rose's desires might change in the future?" Abe asks.

This is weird as hell. First of all, you _hate_ talking about Rose in front of her like she isn't there, probably about as much as you hate talking about your eternal spring.

Rose is staring you down, the loudest silent challenge to open your mouth in the history of all the looks she's ever given you; Janine's in your peripherals, amused and marginally worried, watching the now threeway tennis match with a hand over her mouth.

And you used to think the women in _your_ family were difficult.

"I think—" Rose's foot slides up your calf, a warning, but you ignore it. "I think it's not a completely ridiculous thought, but—"

" _Seriously_?" Rose snaps. "You, too?"

"Let me finish?" you ask gently, raising an eyebrow. She's out of line — you two made an agreement when you first made your relationship official that interrupting each other when talking about thoughts or emotions was a hard No, capital 'n' and all — and you need to start helping her reel herself in before the US drops its third atomic bomb right here in the middle of Pennsylvania.

She concedes with a grumble.

"Thank you." You reach for her hand, squeezing it in reassurance that you're not mad. To Abe: "This isn't my first relationship," you say, not wanting to get into too many details. That's a conversation you haven't had yet, the _let me list my ex-girlfriends and then spend five hours reassuring you that you're better than every one of them combined also sorry my dating history's a lot longer than yours, but we did meet in my mid-twenties and I didn't spend half my high school years on the run_ conversation that'll happen one day — maybe in ten years, when neither of you cares anymore — but not right now, not in front of your future in-laws. "Your daughter — Rose—" You squeeze her hand again, needing her calm for the sake of her sanity. "—loves me more than anyone else I've ever been with. Nobody in the world — except for her — would do what she did for me." Your voice gets tight, but you push on. Tears can fall later, in private, when she's the only one who will see them.

"I've seen how much she loves me. She's had multiple opportunities to walk away from me, and she never took advantage of a single one. Even at the lowest point of my life, she chose to stand by me and a promise she once made me before we even really knew each other, and I can't say the same for anyone else, including myself, because I don't think I could ever do what she did. That kind of loyalty doesn't waver in my experience."

There are three people staring at you, expressions in various states of amazed; Rose is by far the most emotive of her family, surprise etched into her face that you said something like _that_ in a place like _this_ in front of people like _her parents_. Usually you keep that stuff bottled inside, only sharing when you're alone and you feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable and let your guard down to say things of that magnitude.

"So I hear what you're saying, Mr. Mazur," you conclude, feeling like you just announced you had a cancerous third eye on your lower back, "But I'm not worried about Rose losing interest in me. When she lets you in . . . you're in for life, and there's . . . there's very little that can make her push you out, not even . . ."

She knows exactly what you're trying to say; she's tugging you up by your laced fingers, gesturing with her head towards the door. It takes you a moment to realize you're about to lose it, but in true Rose fashion, she figured it out long before you did.

The air is nippy without your coat, pricking at your skin in a way that's almost familiar. Winter in the States has a different edge to it than winter back home; it's sharper and more toxic, attacking you from all sides. Even at St. Basil's in the mountains, the dry air made it feel warmer than it was. You hate winter in Pennsylvania. There's not enough snow to justify the bullshit humidity and temperature fluctuations.

She didn't stop far from the door — you're vaguely aware you're standing in front of the cafe's window — and she's about a foot away, hands wringing together in front of her, unsure of what to do with themselves.

"Do you know what you need right now?" she asks, starting off a series of questions she's found has worked for helping you process these little panicky moments.

"No," you admit. Your thoughts are running at a thousand miles an hour in twelve different directions as your adrenaline kicks up to full speed. Anxiety in place of depression when you think about what you did to her is a fairly recent development, one that intrigues Tristan more than anything, but it's something Rose has taken in stride.

It was once you who calmed her down from panic attacks. The switch in roles isn't unprecedented; you always end up matching each other in the stuff that matters. It's because of your relationship's karmic inability to not parallel each other that you were adamant about her being the one to get the second Strigoi immunity vaccine as soon as it was created. (In your opinion, Rose should've been allowed to test it out the first time; trying it on Neil Raymond was a pathetic waste of resources.) You wouldn't wish your experience on anyone, not even the likes of Victor Dashkov.

"Do you need space?" she asks and you shake your head _no_ because the thought of not touching her right now is more terrifying than it is revolting.

"Do you need physical contact?" she asks and this time you nod, needing her as close to you as possible.

She bites her lip and reaches up to tuck a rebel lock of hair behind your ear. Just that one touch starts to settle you, but it's not enough to fully do the trick.

"Find one thing," she says, echoing her mantra when you get like this. "Tell me one thing you find beautiful. For me."

Today it's her mouth and the way she's worrying her lower lip between her teeth. You tell her that.

She releases her lip with an impish grin. After a moment, she asks again, "Do you still need physical contact?"

It's a dumb question and she recognizes that when she reads the look on your face. She pulls you in with a soft _C'mere_ and wraps her arms around your shoulders, tucking you into her body as much as she can given the footlong height difference and the fact that you're standing up.

It works, though. There's something about her that keeps you sane, the needle and thread you need to stitch yourself up every time you fall apart. You bury your face in her shoulder, breathing in deep the scent of her shampoo embrace her tight by her waist. She simply stands there, soothing away your fears with a finger tracing your molnija mark and whispered reminders of who you are and where you are.

The thread on your heart is the color of her skin and her hair and her eyes, chunks of bleeding crimson tugged together by stained browns and beiges. You would've given up a long time ago if she hadn't been in your life.

Back inside, the food has arrived and while Rose's parents follow her lead on some new banal topic of conversation, you don't miss the way their eyes flick back and forth between you and her as if they're trying to puzzle out something new about your relationship they were otherwise unaware.

* * *

"Don't laugh," she says that night, dropping soft kisses along your stomach as she pushes herself back up your body. "But I just remembered we need to add milk to the grocery list."

You can't help but laugh anyway, a hand over your eyes and the other cupping the back of her neck as she kisses you, sated and sleepy, her mouth tasting like you.

"I told you not to laugh," she whines playfully, sitting up and lightly slapping your chest, and you only laugh harder, twisting to the side as much as you can with her straddling your stomach.

"'I'll add it," you reassure her as you sober, looking up at her and taking her in. Hair mussed and eyes bright, she looks downright edible even though you've already been going at it for easily the last two hours. She stares back at you and lazily tangles your fingers together, leaning forward ever so slightly. You wonder if she's remembering the first time she had you like this, during the first and only time you engaged her during her field experience back at the academy.

Your bladder decides this is a perfect moment to ruin.

"Let me up," you murmur, and she rolls off so you can disappear into the bathroom for a moment.

She's stretched out languidly amid the mess of pillows and blankets that her — your — bed is right now, and she tries to straighten some of it out when you rejoin her, pressing up against her side. You don't lie like this often, mostly because you can't lay diagonally and so your feet hang off the bed when you're this far down, making it uncomfortable after a while.

The comforter falls around your waist and you press a kiss to the top crease of her bare breast, quiet and content and in love. Her nails run along your back, gently scratching a comforting rhythm. There's quite literally nowhere else you'd rather be at the moment.

"Do you ever think about where you'd be if we hadn't met?" she asks so quietly you're not sure you heard her. When her fingers falter at your silence, you get confirmation that you did.

"No," you reply honestly, your arm resting on her stomach and your finger tracing her name in Russian against the skin stretched just below her chest.

"No?" she echoes.

"I would be infinitely less happy than I am right now," you say, "So it'd be a waste of time to think about it. It's better to live in the moment." You turn your head, prop your chin on the slope of pectoral between shoulder and breast, your finger never ceasing in the skin-pressed lines of _lyubimaya_. She's got this look on her face that says she's worried you're about to hit the retreat button and disappear on her. You momentarily hate yourself for having done anything to make that expression mar her exquisite features. "You taught me that."

"And the future?" she whispers to you, too tired to muster up the worried expression you can hear in her voice. "Do you think about that?"

"I do," you say, and when the fear on her face intensifies, you clarify, "I think about how we're moving in together at the end of the month. I think about how we're talking about finding a house somewhere near Court because we both want some separation between us and our work." You bear your weight on the arm beneath you to reach up with the hand tracing words against her body and caress her face, soothing strokes against near flawless skin. "I think about how we're discussing marriage and future trips to visit my family, how we're starting to build a future together."

Her eyes flutter shut at your touch, and she takes a deep breath, bracing herself for her next words, her hand stilling against your back. "Do you ever think about the bad stuff?"

"I think the worst we could ever go through is behind us," you say dryly, aiming for lighthearted and falling short.

The hand on your back turns into a fist for a beat, like she's fighting off the emotions your words brought over her. It's Russian roulette who's affected by the memories of your Strigoi months; this trigger pull, it's her.

"I used to not think about it," she murmurs, eyes wet when she opens them, and your grip in her hair tightens to help ground her. "Once we were together and working and I was eighteen, I didn't give the age difference much thought. There was no power dynamic to worry about. You were — are simply my boyfriend and one of my best friends and I was — am — only ever reminded of our ages whenever marriage comes up. But then Abe today . . ." Terror has taken over her, seizing her in its hold. "I can't stop thinking about a future where you get tired of me."

"Roza," you say, voice deep and accent thick with pain. "I could only get tired of you if I were dead."

Her mouth twists, and her gaze travels up to the ceiling, trying hard not to cry.

"I'm serious." You push up on your arm, half-hovering above her, and you smooth her hair down, doing everything you can think of to keep her in this moment. "I have loved you through the amazing, the ugly, and everything in between. Not even being Strigoi took that away from us. Time is a powerful thing, but it's not that powerful. Nothing — _nothing_ — could push me away from you, nor would it be enough to make me stop loving you.."

You don't mention that's an incredibly childlike idea for you to think, but that isn't something she needs to hear right now. What she needs is your love and support, your reassurance that you aren't going anywhere.

"You promise?" she asks quietly, looking every bit the four-year-old girl who was once abandoned by her mother for the very profession that initially kept you from loving her properly.

"I promise," you murmur, easing down to press your body and mouth against hers. For her, there's no such thing as a promise you can't keep. She gave you the gift of your soul returned; for that, you will always be in her debt.

"And more importantly," you say when you come up for air, shuddering at the way her hands flex against your sides, "I can't go anywhere when we have milk to buy."

She breaks, laughing into the crook of your neck, and the weight in your chest melts away at the sound.

"I can't believe I said that," she says. "In that context, I mean."

"Oh I can," you say, and you launch into soft, playful teases, verbal and physical, until she falls asleep with the prettiest smile you've ever seen gracing her mouth, a wonder of a woman drifting into dreams you hope are only filled with good.


End file.
